


Mykonos

by JustMyName



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Angst to Sweetness, Intrusive dreams, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Moving On, Obsession, Past Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Philadelphia, Post Series, Some slow burning, Unexpected Meetings, silverflint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMyName/pseuds/JustMyName
Summary: Unforeseen circumstances leave Flint alone in Philadelphia, the place where he and Thomas were supposed to make a life together. Years after they are separated, Flint can't shake dreams of a man he thought he left firmly in his past.





	1. Prologue

_But time is like the ocean_  
_You can only hold a little in your hands_  
_So swim before we’re broken_  
_Before our bones become_  
_Black coral on the sand._

**Philadelphia, 1720:**

  
Three years since Flint had found his way to this place. They came here at Thomas’s suggestion. A little less than a year on the camp and their debts to society were payed. Thomas’s father was dead, and no one was even remotely interested in finding them. Flint assured Thomas, anything could be bought for the right price, even their freedom.

And he was right.

Philadelphia seemed an obvious choice once Thomas had mentioned it. A northern city with tolerant Quaker sensibilities, and an established, thriving waterfront. It seemed the perfect city for them to find work and disappear among its inhabitants, too preoccupied with their own lives to notice them.

They procured a shabby two room dwelling attached to the back of a tavern. The woman who ran it offered a fair price and asked no questions. She even offered Thomas work, covetously looking him up and down. She said she could use a man of his intelligence and stature to tend her bar. The tavern was situated on Front street which ran along the Delaware river. Something Flint never admitted to Thomas, but it was the thing he loved most about their new situation.

Watching the ships come and go from the harbor and feeling the soft breeze off the water rush across his face invigorated his very being. It felt like the wind had breathed the life back into him, like he had finally woken up from this very bad dream. Thomas came over to him once they’d settled, a knowing and gentle look upon his features, and tenderly brushed his hand against his.

Flint felt it creep up on him unexpectedly, a flicker of the way he had felt in London, wrapped between the two of them.

Peace.

It came over him while he took in their surroundings, Thomas’s fingers still gently brushing against his. He watched the people tending to their work, the busy wharf, the birds floating a top the glittering water which reflected the sky. As blue as it was ever going to be.

All the things that Miranda and him failingly tried to conjure up in that little house in Nassau: Love, belonging, safety. They never admitted to themselves it was lost for them. It was as if they were trying to chase ill-fated prey through the woods, trapping and encircling it. Their mouths wet with greedy hunger, only to find it was already long dead; sickly decay escaping every orifice.

It still shamed him, to think of her rotting in a criminal’s coffin. Her once intelligent, amber eyes staring at him, black and lifeless. If only she could be here now, in this moment, and know that it was all possible. Everything they thought they could never reconstruct would again be tangible, awaiting them in a modest dwelling along a river. He swallowed hard and looked down at his boots, unable to look on all she would never have any longer.

Their lives quietly went on this way for a rather long time. Flint had come to find his favorite part of their dingy place was that it looked out over the tavern woman's small kitchen garden. She shared it with the surrounding neighbors, all very much in close proximity. There were always children and babies in the garden running about. He never imagined he’d enjoy something like that, but he did all the same. Thomas would sometimes sneak small sweeties to them, and Flint secretly delighted in watching as they clamored about him and climbed up his legs.

Flint found employment as a roper. He wasn’t the most skilled at the trade, but his work was sturdy and his employer appreciated his reliability. It kept his mind occupied and allowed him to be outside while also affording him the luxury of being near the docks and ships. His eventual plan was to acquire his own small boat to fish from, but with their meager wages that was a dream that had to wait its turn.

Thomas took to daily walks to the local coffeehouse where he could converse with other sharp minds who yearned to have their ideas heard. Always, he came home looking vigorous and enlivened, and Flint could see what now spread across his countenance finally mirrored his own sense of quietude.

Then one day, the hour grew late and dusk turned to night. Flint waited up for him until the sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, shining brightly on their small table. Two primitive mugs sat brazenly expecting to be filled with steaming coffee. He waited throughout the day, anxiously eyeing the road as he roughly went about completing his normal tasks. Two more days past; then three. He asked the tavern-goers, asked in the fish market, the man who owned the coffeehouse, the women with their children in the courtyard, even asked the wenches who stalked up and down the alley at night.

All for no purpose, for it seemed Thomas had vanished, leaving nothing but Flint’s unending panic to fill the chasm he left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

_And you will go to Mykonos_  
_With a vision of a gentle coast_  
_And a sun to maybe dissipate_  
_Shadows of the mess you made_

_Brother you don't need to turn me away_

A rousing brume was cast up from the sea; up, out of her frothy swell and over the rail of the ship. He wiped his brow and his hand fell away, drops of water trickling down to the tips of his calloused fingers. The wind blew thick across his face and made him want to shut his eyes. From the setting sun, a blinding reflection was cast off of the white buildings, rendering him briefly unsighted. His weary shoulders welcomed the torrid, blissful rays at his back. The soft twirl of the windmills that lined the coast seemed in rhythm with the sea, like it was prearranged somehow. He could feel himself smiling at his eagerness to leave the boat and find the smooth, pale sand beneath his feet.

The very thought willed him miraculously onto the land with no memory of how he came to be there, and the turquoise water splashed amiably at his bare ankles. The ocean had almost swallowed the sun. It just shyly peeked over the horizon now as it sunk lower into her briny depths. The beach was void of anyone.

Save one.

He appeared before him like a Godly entity. One who shows themselves to the sinner in his final hour, his desire to finally repent desperate and futile. He was sitting, his crutch by his side, and his dark hair was left loose looking washed and lustrous against the twilight. It is obvious it had been a long while since he was near a seafaring ship.

Though his eyes still matched the color of the ocean.

The sun reflected in his irises like the face of a sunflower in full bloom. As if the ocean was lit aflame.

But his expression is soft and expectant, as if to say, “I’ve been waiting.”

The glowing, purple haze of dusk hid all the harshness and pain he’d endured. Flint looked upon him sadly. He would never know what lines and scars were of his own making and which were made by others. Silver rises to greet him as he approaches, and for once has nothing to say. The quiet between them is neither awkward or melancholy. Flint finds himself unwittingly tucking Silver’s hair tenderly behind his ear. He does not flinch.

“Hello old friend,” is all Silver manages, his smiling face turned up at him in fervor.

Flint sucks in a breath, and it lays heavy in his chest. Gazing down at Silver, finally here, deep vulnerability crinkled his brow and his lips twitched with emotion.

“John.” He whispers to him. His name only a breath, as if caught in his throat.

Flint awoke at the threshold of the dream, feeling its touch still teasingly coiled around him.

His name: _John_

Still on his lips. The noise startled him completely awake.

*******

**Philadelphia, March 1722.**

Flint rolled over in his bed, a full-mouthed groan emphatically departing his chest . The fucking dream had been relentless, coming to him every night for as long as he could remember. Over and over again it came, and did nothing but leave Silver’s name on his lips and an unforgiving heaviness in his chest. He rose slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

Staring at the floor, seething, it took him a moment to realize he was biting the inside of his cheek. His tongue incessantly bothered the bite, and he found the iron taste of the blood even more irksome. He spotted one wool sock laying haphazardly across the floor. The dream throws him off, and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. He swears he was waking in his cabin aboard the Walrus, the little shit staring over him, blue eyes gleaming. His eyes knowingly watching him as their relationship progressed; that infuriating, haughty smile spread gently across his face as his chin perched on the shelf of his crutch. At the time, Flint couldn’t make out what went on beneath the surface of Silver’s smile, or why Flint was so disappointed when he always awoke to an empty cabin.

His current surroundings are just as empty. The cutting iciness of the pine floors that line his two room heap bites his toes, making the Walrus seem like a lifetime ago. He had not been aboard a proper ship for many years, and he couldn’t have been any further from the warmth of Mykonos either. _5,000 bloody miles_. He had charted it. Flint was clueless as to why the Greek island he had only ever read about repeatedly came to him in his dreams, vexingly accompanied by John Fucking Silver, but that hadn’t meant he hadn’t brooded over it. His brow furrowed as he helplessly padded for the other holed sock. He squinted against the darkness, dawn still casting deep shadows under his cot.

An intense shot of pain seared up the left side of his back as he sat up, cursing under his breath. Time was an unforgiving bitch, reminding him daily what she takes away at her leisure. Slowly he pulled the sock over his icy foot, and shoved his feet into his worn boots. In silence, he pulled his trousers over his thighs and neatly tucked his shift into them. He then grabbed his wool waistcoat, overcoat, and Monmouth cap. Spring had come to Philadelphia in the startling way it arrived every year in the northern colonies, appearing as if overnight. The days brought warmth and green that hurt his eyes, but the nights were still frostbitten.

Today marked the second anniversary of Thomas’s disappearance. He took his knife and carved another small notch against the edge of the plain wooden table that acted as a place to eat as well as his desk. Maps, papers, and books lay neatly stacked in the corner of it. Marcus Aurelius's Meditations was there too. He thought it had been lost forever, but it arrived randomly one day to the plantation. It was accompanied by no letter or explanation from Oglethorpe either as he handed it to him. When he brought it to Thomas, a splendid smile crossed his lips as his fingers lovingly caressed the inscription. Flint tried his best to mirror that lovely smile, but it unwittingly fell away from him. To hide his wretchedness, he mindlessly turned his attention to the peeling paint on the trim of the door, avoiding the warmth permeating from Thomas’s blue eyes. His mind couldn’t get past the fact that he knew exactly who it was that had returned it to him.

Flint sighed heavily at the memory, and snidely eyed the pair of scratch blue stoneware mugs that sat with a large pitcher. They were marked with the commemorative “GE” printed on the front alongside King George’s likeness. It existed to mock him and his past rebellion, and he hated they were in his house. But they were the glassware he and Thomas drank from every morning, resting casually next to each other in early morning quietude. As with the book, he couldn’t bear to part with many of Thomas’s possessions. A pair of shoes still sat by the door and his summer jacket still hung in the armoire. He kept his shaving kit tucked neatly in the drawer next to their bed. _Their_ bed it was no more, his scent fading from the sheets long ago.

It amazed him how the days just went on without Thomas; how someone can be with you fully and then just gone. Other than their absence, nothing changes. There was no rage against England or Thomas’s father to keep his soul burning. Time just sort of melded together making the days and nights blur. He let himself fall into the blur, almost like the moment he let himself sinuously sink to the bottom of the ocean. It had been easy to descend into the void, the happy ghost of what he, Thomas and Miranda could have been standing loyally at his side.

Now, the two them followed him through the sleepy shared yard now thickening with wet, green grass and down the tavern alley. It was so small the sky was just a slit above his head. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dark tavern window, the deep grey sky casting eerie shadows under his eyes and the beard that grazed his cheeks. His hair was long again. He left it loose, and it rested limply against his shoulders from under his cap. It shown bright red against the dullness of his clothes, the stone wall behind him, and the sunless sky. His broad shoulders were still strong from his work, but his frame thinner than ever.

He had hoped all these things would make him unrecognizable to anyone who may have known the Captain Flint aboard the Walrus. For he was just plain James Flint now. He kept the last name in the end, the impersonator and his true self now fully melded together.

The alley led him to High Street, the main thoroughfare to the docks. He purposefully trudged down the well beaten trek he had taken every day these past two years. His boots splash puddles of mud and filth upon the bottom of his coat. The only people around besides sailors and laborers were the last loitering, rowdy patrons of some disorderly house making their way home to sleep. Their happy yelps and songs could be heard echoing eerily up the steep wharf stairs and winding around corners of houses, their inhabitants still warm in their beds.

Flint paused a moment and watched as a drunkard sloppily grasped at the bottom of a young woman’s skirts, her high-pitched giggle echoed amorously up the alley. He lingers there a moment more, curiously peering down the dingy path and watching them disappear behind a wooden door, their laughter finally quieted by passion.

It’s a short time before he’s crossed Front street to the wharf. The blue-lit fog of dawn eerily creeps over the river’s edge casting shadows against the water like something out of a storybook. Flint continued journeying closer to the river, and closed his eyes for a short moment as the cool breeze hit his face. He listened as it blew through the flags of two small ships that had docked overnight, and indulged himself in the sound and the memories it brought him.

The church bells announcing the official morning grab him from the clouds where he reminisced and sat him dutifully at his post. He pulled the work left from the day prior taught across the traveller at the end of the rope walk. The other men start to appear, some silent, some chatting with the man next to them about their children or some escapade from the night before. He’s never really made any effort to befriend any of the men he worked with, but he was able to pass the time with them exactly the way he wanted, in agreeable silence.

Eventually they made their way to their posts along the long expanse of the walk. Flint picked up his wooden paddle, and methodically started beating the rope. It was the only sort of violence he had allowed himself in so long, and sometimes he let his frustrations loose against the tightly wound fibers. His upper lip lifted up over his teeth like a hissing cat as he grit his jaw and his pace quickened. Sweat beaded from his forehead and down his back even in the damp dreariness of day-break and the sharp smell of the pine tar stung his nostrils. This was how he was able to lose himself day after day, in this measured, monotonous brutality. He took all his fury and sadness and locked it away neatly in a cage of his own design. The only way now, for him, was to keep the beast alive. It was all he could do.

The sun rose chasing away the fog of the gloomy morning, and the streets grew crowded. Flint only realized the change as the shape of a large sail cast a shadow over the rope in front of him. He heard a loud call bellow down from high on the ratline and he squinted as the sun flickered brightly behind the main mast of the sloop. It looked to be another small merchant ship, but he didn’t recognize it. The crew was busy readying to dock and the anchor was already in the water. He usually didn’t pay any mind to the ships coming and going, but something felt strange to him and made him want to turn around.

The feeling of familiarity engulfed him even though he had never seen this particular ship. Almost like deja vu. He looked around at the others to see if the feeling was mutual, but no one else seemed to notice. None of them even looked up from their work. He thought himself ridiculous, standing their like an idiot gawking at a ship. As if he’d never seen one before. He motioned to turn around and ignore his urge, but couldn’t.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, he squinted again against the sun. A shadow appeared at the top of the gangway. Again, _familiar_. He stepped closer to get a clearer look, but made sure he was obscured by the great wooden beam of the rope walk. He watched the figure descend the gangway, his notorious gait obvious, and the sound of his boot echoing throughout the docks. The very sight of him made the hairs on the back of Flint’s neck stand on end and his belly drop. He stepped even further behind the beam hoping he was fully concealed.

It didn’t much matter because John Silver was looking straight ahead. His dark curls were still worn long, even more so than when he had last seen him, but they were pulled back fully into a ponytail. He looked thinner as well, these past five years dwindling his small frame same as his own. Flint recognized the tenacious look on his face, his features focused resolutely on a tavern door set one-hundred paces across Front Street. He had the weary look of a man who had endured a rough journey across the sea, and wished for nothing more than a warm meal and copious amounts of liquor. He wondered where they had arrived from. How long had it been?

Flint abruptly turned away keeping his attention focused on his work again, but his gaze inadvertently drifted toward Silver’s back as he entered the tavern. He deeply wished to follow him, but there was no way to escape his duties at the moment without being docked wages, and there was also the very real risk of Silver spotting him as he entered. The danger was too great. So he did all he could, and finished the day as usual, and greatly distracted. He kept his gaze resolutely at the tavern door for hours, the sun now showing bright red behind the buildings as it set. Yet Silver never emerged.

_Some say love is a burning thing_  
_That it makes a fiery ring_  
_Oh but I know love as a fading thing_  
_Just as fickle as a feather in a stream_  
_See, honey, I saw love,_  
_You see it came to me_  
_It puts its face up to my face so I could see_  
_Yeah then I saw love disfigure me_  
_Into something I am not recognizing_

_See the cage, it called. I said, come on in_  
_I will not open myself up this way again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone! There will be a few more chapters to this as it's basically just an extended one shot. :D
> 
> I took inspiration after reading a book called Philadelphia's Lost Waterfront by Harry Kyriakodis. Super fascinating if you're into history at all. 
> 
> The stoneware Flint describes on his table is something that was during George III's reign during the American Revolution, but I just added it here with George I instead for added angst haha. I am sure there were similar pottery, but i have no idea what it would look like. 
> 
> First song lyrics: Mykonos by Fleet Foxes which is honestly the whole reason this story even came to me!  
End song lyrics: Song for Zula by Phosporescent.
> 
> I am going to name all the lyrics as they are songs I have been listening to continuously while figuring out this story in my brain if anyone would like to have a listen! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading, I am enjoying this fan community so much!
> 
> Also, apparently a "disorderly house" was what early 1700s people called a brothel in the colonies. And I just love it. lol


	3. Chapter 3

_Well I walk upon the river like it's easier than land_  
_Evil's in my pocket and your will is in my hand_  
_Oh, your will is in my hand_  
_And I'll throw it in the current that I stand upon so still_  
_Love is all, from what I've heard, but my heart's learned to kill_  
_Oh, mine has learned to kill_

It’s dark now. Once his work had finished, Flint slid over to the side of the tavern where he was safely engulfed in shadows, the only light coming from the lantern perched above the doorway. He’d long since been listening to the rowdy patrons having a meal and a chat. Most of them would dwindle away their day’s wages on drink before they even arrived home. His legs had grown tired and so he turned his back to the brick wall resting them the best he could, and crossed his arms against his chest for support. Briefly he allowed his eyes to shut before he sighed heavily at his absurd predicament, _You fucking fool._

His eyes opened again as he purposefully pounded the back of his head against the wall and stared up at the stars. This was how he stood for quite a while, trying to rationalize what the fuck he thought he was doing, and willing away his nasty thirst for a drink. Usually he would have been at home by now pouring his third glass. Self- flagellation seemed like a proper alternative to drown his stupidity.

Suddenly, the door opened roughly and slammed shut again with the grunt of one said patron as he emerged. Flint’s heart fluttered each time the door had opened this past hour or two. He didn’t dare peer around the corner as he was unsure of who it was, but his body stood at attention, ready. He realized quickly there was no need to see him, for the sound of the boot echoed loudly against the cobblestone street. The metal ground viciously against the sandy soil in between each stone as he stepped.

When he realized he was moving away from him, Flint thought it safe to peel himself from the wall. He pulled his cap lower on his head, turned the collar of his coat closer to his jaw, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He followed him, treading as silently as possible. Keeping a safe distance away from him, he was surprised when Silver turned down an alley, away from the river. He had expected him to return to his ship. _Where was he going?_

Ever more curious, Flint kept on with his expedition. One he knew to be ill-fated. He could feel it in his bones.

Silver was alone, and his long coat billowed behind him like a sail as he swiftly moved along the alley way. He was quicker than when he had known him, now well practiced at walking in the boot. It was obvious he had finally taken to caring for his wound properly, but his left shoulder was still rigid against his limb's absence. And, from what Flint could observe even without seeing his face, pain. If the pain had not left him in all this time, he wondered if Silver would ever be free of it.

Silver continued on, crossing Second Street, to another alley and then made a right towards High Street. Flint’s heart started to race and he could feel the sweat line the front of his cap. Each clank of the boot echoed deafeningly in his ears. A woman noticed him and scathingly stared at his boot. The shadows cast from the the lit candle she held highlighted the unattractive and harsh angles of her face. When she peered up from the boot and looked into Silver’s face her disgusted features deflated, transforming to pure fear. She immediately stepped back in the threshold and and slammed the door against him. Silver didn’t even act as if he noticed her, just kept moving. He was purposeful in his movements like he knew exactly where he was going. Though from what Flint had read in the newspapers Long John Silver hadn’t spent much of his time in Philadelphia.

It was ludicrous to be stalking him like this. He didn’t even know what he had hoped to gain from it. Nothing would change, and he wasn't going to confront him, even though it was all he wanted. It took most of his energy to keep from besieging him. He wanted to take him from behind and shove his face to the cobblestones.

Even after all these years, the brazen choices Silver made and all the consequences that followed caused an ire so passionate to form in Flint, he thought he’d burn alive if he thought on it too long. It wasn’t the fact that he had been the end of Captain Flint, just as he promised. It was the fact that he had made the choice for him. He had ended their partnership without his consent and decided for both of them that they would no longer be tangled in one another. And….Thomas….

Seeing him in that field after so many years. Alive. Breathing. Smiling. It was as if Thomas's kiss had expelled John Silver from him, cast him out and back to the sea, leaving just the memory of what they may or may not have been. Thomas and John traded places-Thomas now again apart of the living, and John Silver the ghost.

But now, just as before, it seemed like it was such a small moment in time that they had each other. John Silver and his choices, their uncoupling, their disentanglement, whether it was Silver's intention or not, had caused him to endure the pain of losing Thomas all over again. _What was the fucking point to it all?_

Flint knew that whatever life he would attempt with Madi was going to fail. He tried to tell him. He knew before Silver did, she would not accept what he had done. Not ever, no matter how much she loved him. He had forsaken her as he had forsaken him.

The intelligent thing to do would be to accept that it was better for everyone if he and Silver never crossed paths again, never spoke, never even glanced in each other’s direction.

But if Flint was honest with himself, Silver hadn’t ever really brought the most rational choices out of him.

He just couldn’t bring himself to ignore the fact that Silver was here, in front of him again. He was so close he could almost smell the sea on him. He wasn’t turning around now.

Lost in his thoughts and the adrenaline racing through his body, it took Flint a moment to realize where they had ended up. Silver had turned right down Third Street and they were heading to where it crossed High street, the view of the tavern he lived behind came up fast on the left of them. It was still quite busy, a pleasant glow radiating from the large windows. Flint had ducked behind a high fence, not wanting to be seen in the light as he watched him. Silver hesitated a moment in front of the window, peering in. Flint caught glimpse of his profile, his blue eyes bright against the light, his brow creased in concentration as if he was looking for someone. Flint’s heart nervously fluttered in his chest. _Surely he wasn’t looking for Thomas._

Silver’s hand gently caressed the window, and lingered for just a moment as he turned away from him again and went down the alley where Flint lived. Dread started to weigh Flint down, and his throat closed against his will, making it impossible to swallow. _He couldn’t have known they lived here. How the fuck could that be possible?_

He clenched his jaw, and his hands left his pockets now. They formed themselves into fists. He managed to get around the bend of the alley unnoticed, and even though Silver had disappeared into the blackness, he could hear his boot still moving down the path towards the garden. Flint followed him, his entire body now on edge, his legs and shoulders ready to lunge at his back. Hew knew he would find him inside the house, and he turned the last corner and plummeted into the darkness of the garden almost savage in his tenacity. Whatever he had said about not confronting him before was over.

He never even made it into the garden, let alone anywhere near his door.

Before he was even able to fully assemble his rage, an arm grabbed him round the back of his neck and swung him full force into the wall of the tavern. His head slammed harshly against the bricks, a knee forced itself between his thighs so brutally that he heard it knock against the wall almost as hard as his head. He was so focused on that it took him a moment to comprehend the cold steel of a knife held to his throat. Flint almost laughed at his shock at being subservient to the other end of the knife. _How the tables had turned since the first months they knew each other._

Silver didn’t flinch as his face came into focus. His features were icy under the pale moonlight, but his breath was hot against Flint’s face,

“Quite out of practice, Captain. Aren’t we?”

His words sounded like Silver, but they held none of the mirth they may have years ago. Flint struggled against him and Silver ruthlessly shoved him back for a second time, the peg of his leg coming down excruciatingly on the top of his foot. He grunted and grimaced in pain, his teeth showing brightly against the moonlight. Silver’s flashed his teeth in response, but instead of pain it was a caustic, nasty grin.

“You really thought I didn’t know you were there?”

“Why the fuck are you here, Silver?” Flint asked as he pushed himself against him again, this time forcefully, his gaze never leaving Silver’s moonlit eyes.

Their chests and hips slammed together, and their noses almost touched. Their heavy breathing caused a veil of condensation between them so thick it was like fog. A small amount of blood dribbled over his cravat as he felt the searing blade break his skin. Silver mercilessly jammed his knee into the inside of his thigh once more, close enough to his groin that he hissed.

“Move again and I’ll slit your throat.” He warned.

It was now that Flint, realizing he wasn’t getting out of this, relaxed slightly against the wall.

“What do you want from me?” He whispered, his green eyes boring into him, searching for John Silver. Ashamed to hear himself beg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is: All is Love by The Tallest Man on Earth


	4. Chapter 4

_But all the knots in my stomach are telling, _   
_there’s no where to rest, _   
_there’s no place to go, _   
_and the shadows they keep on _   
_with their shanty song _

  
There they stood in the darkness, struggling against each other, stilled in time. Silver menacingly pressed against him, his fury was written plainly on his face. Flint centered himself and searched Silver’s eyes. They reflected the moonlit sea back at him. He was a bewitching siren, returning from the deepest, darkest part of the ocean to haunt him. He fell into his murky depths frantically hunting the forever lost time that had passed between them; desperate to find the John Silver he knew. 

_“What do you want from me?”_

There was the smallest glint of something when Silver observed him looking at him, his eyes softened and his brow lifted into a troubled crease. He allowed a small space to separate them, quieting the ferocity of their clashing bodies. The hard line of his mouth relaxed and he licked his bottom lip, and breathed out, ready to say something. 

Before he could speak they were startled by the clank of bottles coming from the end of the alleyway. Whatever grasp of understanding that fell between them faltered and Flint’s gaze shot quickly away from Silver. His heart leaped into his throat as he saw a shadow along the wall seconds from turning the corner. His stomach lurched making him nauseous, and an anxious, red heat radiated up his neck from his chest. 

He hadn’t realized until now how much Silver was risking, luring and confronting him in the darkness. He may have slid by unnoticed by many on that small merchant ship (or more likely as Flint thought on it, he probably awarded them with quite a hefty payment.)

If he wasn't careful and some one gave him a long enough look they would realize who he truly was. Not just some invalid sailor, but the notorious pirate, Long John Silver, sensationalized and legendary. Stories circulated every newspaper up and down the colonies. Captain Flint had faded away, every imaginable story told about his demise, but Silver, his protege and scandalous end maker effortlessly took his place in the fading, fantastical world he used to reside.

  
Before Flint could grasp what Silver was doing, Silver moved the knife he held at his throat down his body to the left side of his ribs, now concealed from the intruder. He nudged him lightly with the point to keep his intentions understood. 

His knee stayed between Flint’s legs but softened against his inner thigh, the gesture shifting from threatening to amorous. Silver’s forearm came away from his chest, hand sliding beneath Flint’s open overcoat and around the small of his back. His body hotly pressed against him once more; not aggressive this time, but tender. Flint could feel himself shudder as their hips connected like two pieces of a puzzle. 

“What are you......” 

But he was cutoff, gasping as Silver rested his head in the crook of his neck above his right shoulder. His breath was uneven and hot against him, lightly brushing his lips along the exposed skin above his cravat. Then he turned away from Flint, observing the shadow turn the corner. The scent of his curls:, musk, lemon oil, and the salty spray of the sea invaded Flint’s senses. Silver’s heat enveloped him. He fastened his eyes shut and pressed his lips together, trying his damnedest to stifle the fervent, traitorous groan that demanded its freedom.

  
The view of the alley was now obscured from Flint. He froze, still as the stones beneath him. His breath hitched in his throat, as Silver’s grasp at his back tightened tremendously. He knew the figure must have been in plain view now. Silver cleverly turned a violent encounter into what appeared to be two illicit lovers conducting their foulness in the dark confines of an alley. Flint hoped whoever it was was hopefully too embarrassed to cause a scene and alert the soldiers. 

The person stopped, but stood there a long moment, the air electrified between the three of them. They were probably deciding how to react to their sinful discovery. He could feel Silver’s entire body go rigid beneath him obvious now that he was just as terrified of their ungodly dilemma as him. 

  
Then to Flint’s utter shock, he heard the clank of the bottles once more as the tray slid against the ground. He was sure the footsteps would rush towards them, but instead, the intruder left the alley. Their quick pace faded as they made their way up the street, leaving Silver and Flint frozen in the dark, clinging to one another.

  
It felt like an eternity before Flint felt his breath return to him in heavy waves, startled that Silver too, had also been rendered breathless. He felt the heave of Silver’s chest rhythmically connecting to his as he tried to get it under control. As Silver shifted attempting to untangle themselves, Flint could feel the hardness of him searingly splayed against his thigh. Silver silently peeled himself off of him, mercifully avoiding eye contact. Flint unwittingly sighed. His body lamented the lost connection, the space between them turning cold and melancholy. He examined his shoes and cleared his throat as his face became hot with shame. His mind was unable to come to terms with the fact that he was as hard as Silver. He wished he could adjust himself where his breeches pulled, tight and uncomfortable.

Without any explanation and still avoiding eye contact, Silver gracefully switched the knife to his other hand and pointed it at Flint’s back as he shoved him forcefully down the alley towards his house. 

“Silver…” Flint pleadingly ejected, his voice raspy. He hoped to coax some kind of response out of him, some kind of explanation.

“Just walk Flint. We need to get the hell out of here before whoever the fuck that was returns with twenty soldiers. I don’t know about you, but I would like to avoid a noose around my neck come morning.”

His tone was even, but Flint plainly heard the aching beg strenuously thrust beneath the surface of his request. He couldn’t deny him.

They followed the dark passageway to the silent garden, and Silver was patient with him as he struggled to unlock his door.

He entered carefully, standing in the pitch black. He shivered at the cold. It was one of those nights where it was cooler in his unlit rooms compared to outside. He hadn’t been home since the morning and the cold gray ash from the night before still sat in the fireplace. 

Silver waited a moment, after shutting the creaky door against the rest of the world. It was silent save for the muffled hollering of the sparse rowdy patrons heard behind his wall in the tavern. Flint turned his back to him after receiving no kind of response from Silver, who rested himself against the door and didn’t move. As if by reflex he kneeled by the fireplace, finding the tinderbox in the pitch-black.

_Click, click, click_ into the darkness. Nothing but the sound of him hitting the flint against the steel, desperately trying to ignite the kindling in the box. He cursed when his knuckles hit the rough flint, the irony of his chosen name not escaping him. He could feel Silver’s burning presence behind him, watching him as he did so. 

When he was able to light the smallest piece of dried wood he beckoned Silver over.   
“Bring that candle on the desk will you?” He said into the darkness. He continued to gently blow at it, the light reflecting warmly off his amber beard. He chose not to look up from his task.

The frenzy between them had extinguished for the moment in the necessity of light and warmth, but Flint could still feel the itchy tension in the air, his shoulders stiff with suspense.

Silver kept his body at a distance but the candle came into his view as he held the wick to the small flame. His fingernails were dirty with blood and the his own filth. He wondered silently to himself when the last time he had a proper wash was. He watched him, as his calloused hand moved in his direction, trying to hand him the candle. 

“Just set it in the holder on the table.” 

  
Silver quietly obeyed him, reminding him of when they were Captain and Quartermaster. Once upon a time. He continued to blow at the flame, ignoring him for as long as he possibly could.

Eventually, his patience growing thin, Silver cleared his throat, callous against the pleasant, momentary silence between them. 

Flint looked up then, the fire now confidently cackling in the fireplace, providing a soft glow about the room. Silver was leaning against the desk, the candle glowing behind him. The polished knife still threatened him as it rested on the table at his side. His arms were crossed, and a look of impatience had spread across his face, mouth formed into the familiar tight line. 

Flint was very happy with the short moment of practical teamwork between them. It had always seemed that was the way they worked, even in their most dire moments. If something needed finishing or a solution, the two of them were always able to get there. It never mattered how much was bubbling below the surface of their complicated relationship, or how much one didn’t like the answer looming there.

It was what Flint loved so much about their partnership. Maybe Silver had never thought so, but they had truly always been equal in his eyes, one not succeeding without the other. Ying and Yang; completely symbiotic. A generous smile came upon him as he took pleasure in the small moment, how they fell so easily into the monotony. 

Silver was the first to speak.

“What in the hell do you have mind to smile about?” He asked, his limbs uncrossing and falling heavily at his sides. He regarded him intensely. Eager.

Flint felt his face slump at the question and answered him seriously.

“I haven’t had anything to smile about in about two years. Forgive me if I find the state in which we find ourselves the smallest bit amusing.” 

“Where’s Thomas?” Silver asked, looking about the room as if Thomas would appear before him from beneath the bed. 

“I don’t know.” Flint replied gruffly, wanting him to know that it wasn’t a subject he was interested in delving into at the moment. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” 

His eyebrows creased, as if in distress. It was one of Silver’s most infuriating facial expressions, as if he was talking to an imbecile. Flint wanted to punch the look from his face as he looked about the room again, fully expecting Thomas to attack him with a knife. 

“What do you mean ‘What do I mean….he’s gone, disappeared. I haven’t seen him in two fucking years. He went to a coffeehouse on a sunny day and never came back. I’ve searched for him, asked everyone, but it's as if he turned to ash and vanished in the wind. So now all I can assume is that he is fucking dead….again. An evil trick God played to cause me torment for all the horror I've brought to others.” Flint fought the hot, angry tears the swelled beneath the surface. 

_Again_.

Silver’s eyes darkened, but he remained silent. The undercurrent of all he wanted to say sprung off the walls, bouncing so tensely it was as if Flint could reach out and grab it from thin air. He eyed the knife that still sat next to him, Silver’s hand now resting over it.

Silver winced when he shifted his full weight onto his boot. He never let his gaze falter even after he noticed Flint regard his pain. Flint took a moment to look at his boot, Silver’s tattered pants depressingly tied off where they had ripped, a very small glimpse of the angry flesh revealed itself from beneath his pant leg. Flint studied him now that the light grew from the fire behind him alighting Silver’s face. His face was drawn, and dark shadows were cast below his eyes, the creases around them deeper than Flint remembered. His hair was windblown and dirty, curled tendrils escaping from where it was tied at the nape of his neck. The meal he enjoyed at the tavern must have been the nicest one he’d had in weeks. Flint noticed it as his gaze wandered over his body how his thin pants hung low on his hips. He was under-dressed for the weather. It was obvious he had come from someplace with a warmer climate.

“You look like shit.” He told him, finding his eyes again.

A snake-like smile crept up Silver’s features as he grabbed for the chair, the purposeful screech against the floorboards uncomfortably ringing in Flint’s ears. It was obvious now Silver had nowhere to be, and was making himself comfortable, enjoying how Flint examine him. He sat in the rickety chair like the king that he was, as if awaiting for Flint to kneel before him. 

Flint pushed himself up against the cool stone wall next to the fireplace, forcing his hands between him and it, trapping them there as if to keep them from betraying him. The cool stone of the wall helped to settle his mind. He needed to focus, but every shred of his tattered soul wanted to kneel before Silver, sheathed between his knees.

Flint the loyal subject, ready to give him anything. 

_I’ve been mistaken for something I’m not _   
_for something I wished I could be _   
_Pretty and fine, _   
_I’d draw the line _   
_at just singing soothingly _

_But I’ve been a liar _   
_I have been ugly _   
_I can be ugly _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life you know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Song is Siren by Joan Shelley


	5. Chapter 5

_From the destruction, out of the flame_   
_You need a villain, give me a name_

_I'll let the darkness swallow me whole_   
_I need to find you, need you to know_   
_I'll be your friend in the daylight again_   
_There we will be, like an old enemy_   
_Like the salt and the sea_

  
Adhered to the wall, Flint grieved over the waning moment he longed for, now past. Silver’s face glowed in the light cast out from the fireplace, his eyes twinkling at him. 

He realized Flint had decided to stay where he was and his countenance grew serious, frowning at his restraint. He sat back in the chair, his back growing straighter, and his hands rested firmly on his thighs. Then he sighed deeply and looked away as if their entire entangled past would be released to the sky along with it. Flint could not allow that to happen, though to his distress, a cowardly rasp of a whisper was all he could muster.

“I blame you.”

Silver had no reaction other than to quietly stare at him. 

“You blame me for what exactly?” He finally replied after a long moment of consideration. His eyes crinkled in question.

He spread his shoulders out, headstrong and consciously holding Flint’s gaze. He was fully aware his eyes were brimming with accusations.

“I could wrack my brain for hours going through all the moments between you and I, and almost every instance contains some kind of betrayal masked by one of us.” 

Silver’s voice cracked in annoyance and confusion overwhelmed his face, “So please enlighten me.” 

Flint felt his wrath seethe like lava from his toes to the top of his head. The back of his neck was red hot and his shoulders bloomed in rage. He showed his teeth to Silver, like the warning of a cat before biting. 

He spat at him, accusing and infuriated, “It was you who forced me into submission, killed my war, and sent me to Thomas!”

He wanted to rage and roar at him, to grab him by his hair and slam his face against the table, but he could not allow himself that pleasure. Instead he takes a deep breath to calm himself and bites his bottom lip in restraint. He used the tangible, raw cold of the stone wall as the anchor that kept him from moving any closer.

Continuing on quieter now, yet unable to fully conceal his wrath, “ You killed me. I might have thanked you once, one selfless act from the most self-serving man I’ve ever meant, but now….now I’ve lost him all over again.” 

  
The bile sticks in the back of his throat and his breath comes ragged. He feels sick with the pain, the heartache he had so easily forgotten after Thomas came back to him. The tears now can’t be held back and they embarrassingly well up, blurring his vision. 

“Now wait a minute.” 

Silver is up now, defiant versus Flint's grief, the comfort of his chair forgotten.

“You call me the most selfish man you’ve meant, but who is the one who was going to have us all killed so you could see Nassau burn? You, me, Madi…anyone else who stood in your way. We’d all be dead if you had what you wanted. And what is the point of any of it if that was our end? What was the point of building a new order, if you weren’t alive to witness it? I gave you Thomas back, alive……I stood there…..” 

Silver’s breath hitched in his throat at his confession, unable to finish his statement. He stepped closer, forcing Flint to retreat back to the wall, the space between them so small he could feel his breath hot upon his face.

  
Silver’s eyes lingered on his lips only a moment, before returning to his eyes, feverish in their intensity. His face coiled up in anguish as he at last professed,

“I stood there in the forest…and begged you to stay with me. So that we could leave that place together.” 

Flint felt him inching closer with every word, his hand grasping his arm and thigh brushing his. Flint notices his other arm slack at his side, and he can’t remember in his fury, if the knife still rested on the table or if Silver had picked it up without him noticing. At this angle, pinned once more against the wall by John Silver, Flint cannot be sure. But the ferocity in Silver’s eyes as their noses almost touch is enough evidence for Flint to place the palm of his hand against Silver’s chest allowing a chance for defense. His skin seared against his, hot from bathing in the firelight.

“I cannot see how you expected it to go any differently, when you could not sacrifice it for me,” He continued. 

“What was I supposed to do? Thomas. Well he was just a fortunate accident, one which allowed me to get my way. Deep down I knew, in that moment, you and I… _it_ could never be. But if I could give you _him_, it would be a welcome consolation to you for losing everything….” 

  
Silver’s eyes fell to his chest, his mouth opened as if to say something else, but he was unable. Flint could see it now. He was wrestling with himself. There was something dark he was turning over and over in his mind. Flint could tell by the purse of his lips and the crease in his brow. He took his momentary recoil as opportunity to slowly lower his arm, matching the one that Silver left by his side. He felt with his fingertips the edge of the blade there, and then as swiftly as he could grabbed for Silver’s wrist gripping it tightly to the top of his hand. As soon as Silver felt his touch he froze and closed his eyes, perplexed. Flint squeezed again. 

“Let go of the knife John.” His given name felt strange coming from his mouth, overly familiar in a way that made him want to laugh. Saying his name out loud made him feel vulnerable in a way he didn’t like. 

Silver looked up at him when he heard his given name on Flint’s lips. His eyes darkened, wary but willful. Even as his features softened, he held his hand stiff against Flint’s grip in no hurry to let go. 

“_Please_.” Flint pleaded with the same intensity as the alley.

He pushed against him, and Silver stumbled back when his iron foot got caught between two floorboards. He caught himself and stood in opposition as Flint descended upon him. They struggled against each other, their arms held out at ninety degrees. Flint drove him back further and they thrashed against the table, pottery crashed and his books toppled to the floor. He clenched his fingers around Silver’s wrist hard as he could. His jaw tight with the effort, he squeezed the knife from him like a snake suffocating its prey. They both watched it hit the floor, the metal unpleasantly striking the wood. 

Standing awkwardly, entangled once again and breathing heavily, they stared at the knife, now rendered useless on the floor.

Surprisingly, Silver’s arm gradually slackened against Flint’s vise like hold, trying to twist his wrist away. He knew he should let go then, but he couldn’t bring himself to cease his grip on him. He kept his hand there, in curiosity or defiance he didn’t know.

Flint looked down on him then, questioning. Silver’s ocean eyes stared up at him, his gaze maddeningly unwavering even in their struggle. But even though he was able to keep his face in his usual nonchalant expression he couldn’t conceal his heaving chest.

Flint knew it was partly due to the effort of keeping himself from falling. But as he regarded him further he knew from the quivering of his shoulders and bob of his Adam’s apple that it was not all from defending himself. 

Their faces were mere inches from each other. Flint was now the one in control, familiar bearings he had longingly missed the comfort of. He moved his hand from Silver’s wrist to his rope-roughened hand now gentle in its intentions. Silver was slightly perched upon the table and Flint maneuvered himself easily between his legs. He watched with deep satisfaction when Silver’s lips opened for him the moment their bodies fully connected.

Flint needed with his entire being to savagely possess him, his body, those lips, but instead he was tender and restrained. It was more important to appropriately gauge Silver’s response to him. He was shaking all over, but accepted him. Gently opening his mouth against his, their lips chastely brushed and then after a guarded moment, they were drenched in one another. 

Their fervent kiss at long last snuffed out the exhausting and ceaseless rage that had suffocated and entrapped Flint for these past two years.

He briefly wondered if Silver’s trembling was from being neglected in this way for too long, or if it was because he was a man. Or maybe it was just the specific man Flint was.

They stayed that way a long, quiet moment, connected, eyes shut, foreheads touching, feeling each other’s skin burn against the others. Similar to the alley in its position, yet it’s intent entirely different.

It was the first calm moment between them since the docks, when Flint first set his eyes on Silver. The siren cast out from the sea, now in his arms at last.

_Not the meat of your thigh_   
_Nor your spine tattoo_   
_Nor your shimmery eye_   
_Nor the wet of the dew_   
_It's not the warm illusion_   
_Nor the crack in the plate_   
_Nor the breath of confusion_   
_Nor the starkness of slate_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flint thinking he's in control guys. ;)
> 
> First quote: The Salt and the Sea by The Lumineers  
Second quote: Not by Big Thief
> 
> I enjoyed writing this chapter. Hope you like it.


End file.
